Miller's Daughter
by NyxBorn
Summary: The three nights she had to spin straw to gold, and the night she gave birth. Disclaimer- Does not include the fight with Rumpelstiltskin.


**((Author's Note- The POV changes every other 'paragraph'. First, third, fifth, and so on are Cora, second, fourth, sixth and so on are Rumpelstiltskin.))**

She weeps in the locked room, surrounded by straw. She cannot do this, she'd be killed, her father killed, and it'll all be for _nothing._ She is not the crying type—never has been—but she cannot help it. "Please." She gasps, sobbing. "Please, please, _please_." She is unsure to whom she is praying to, but surely it can't hurt—

Deep blue smoke fills the air, and he is there, sitting on a bundle of straw. "That's what I'm here for, Dearie!"

"You— you'd help me?" She gasps, standing up, wiping furiously at her face. "Who are you?"

"And what will you do for me?" He sing-songs, ignoring her question.

Indecision flashes across her face, desperation. "I—I can give you this ring." It's all she has, all he might want, that is. . .

He peers at her face, and a high-pitched laughter fills the room. "One worthless ring, for a room of gold? I'm afraid that won't cut it, dearie."

Shame flashes across her face. "It has great sentimental value. My mother gave it to me before she died—"

"How sweet." He turns away. "However, magic comes at a price, and as much as a loved possession might—"

"It's my favorite possession!" She bursts out, and draws back, afraid he would strike her.

"Is it?" He turns to face her, an index finger sharply rotating the air. "Well, that changes things, doesn't it?"

She studies his face, trying to measure his sincerity. "Please. I must—"

"It wasn't me who told the king about spinning straw to gold." His voice is a cackling melody.

"We needed the gold. I never thought he'd lock me—"

"How unfortunate. But as you can offer nothing more than a worthless ring, I must get going." He turns again. "Good luck with getting out of this mess, Dearie."

He hears a sharp inhaled breath, and the sound of rough cotton rubbing against itself. As blue smoke begins to gather around him, he hears something fall, and a sharp "Wait!" Curiosity getting the better of him, he vanishes to the other side of the room, as she steps out of her dress.

"I have this." Her voice is strong, but he hears frailty in it, desperation. "I can pay with this. A room full of gold—For my body. I'll do anything—Anything."

"And your mind?" He taunts her. Anything, now that was an interesting prospect. . .

She tilts her head up defiantly, her brown eyes squarely meeting his eyes. "That too, if you wish. If you make the gold. I said I would do anything."

He's amused by her. "My, my, someone's desperate." She was nothing like Milha, and yet. . . . Something reminds him of the worthless whore. It had been so long since he had been with a woman, much less one who was offering herself to him. . .

She steps closer to him, hands trembling, goosebumps rising on her body. "Do we have a deal?"

As a response, he thrusts his hand though her chest, wraps his fingers around her heart, and tugs it out.

She gasps at the sensation, dully looking at her heart in his hands. "Do we have a deal?" She repeats. "Your magic, for my body. Your magic, for my—Oh!"

He had squeezed her heart, driving her to the ground, as she lets out a scream. "I make the deals here, Dearie!" He hisses. Tempted to tighten his grip, to squeeze it to dust, he relaxes his fingers, eyes roving over her form.

She stands, trembling, fear filling her eyes, arms pressed to her sides, deep breaths drawing what she knows are his eyes to her chest.

"Do we have a deal?" He sing-songs, echoing her words.

She takes a breath, steeling herself. "We have a deal." She closes her eyes, and presses her mouth to his.

As he spins the straw into gold later, she watches him, gathering her dress around herself, as if shy of what she'd done. He works in silence, the sound of spinning broken only by breathing, and gold falling to the floor.

Finally, the gold is done, the shining gold color broken only by long odd dashes of red. On a few places, the gold is paler, or darker, but he doesn't expect a mere _mortal _to spot that.

"Red." Her voice is short, scared. "Why red?"

He spares her a parting glance. "Red for your blood, of course. This is the straw on which we—"

"I understand, yes." She cuts him off, knees pressed to her chest, arms tightly around them. "Thank you."

He stands from his seat, her heart in his grip, twitching his free hand at her. "Stand. Come to me."

She does so without hesitation, and breathes deeply once more with mere centimeters between him. "I cannot—"

She gasps as he places her heart back inside her chest, his face a cool mask of unemotion. "Take it." He cackles. "You earned it. As a keepsake, I'll be taking this. . . "

Her ring yanks itself off her finger, landing in his palm. She doesn't argue, only meets his eyes. "Thank you."

* * *

The next night, he finds her there again, only this time she's not weeping, and there is more straw.

"The King wants more." She bursts out. "I can't—Only you can—_Please_—" Clumsily, her fingers pry at her neck, tearing off a cheap chain, a gold bit of straw twined through it. "Take it, please—"

He watches her, amused. "And why would I want a tawdry thing like _that_?"

She reddens. "It's worth more than the ring—"

"It's made with _my _magic, Dearie. If I _wanted_ it, I'd have it." The finger spins in the air again.

She takes a breath. Surely, he wouldn't be as accepting as he was last night. . . "Take my mind. You had my body last."

He chuckles. "I could _have it_ anytime I want. Your mind. . . No longer interests me."

She flinches back as if slapped. She would die, her father would die. . . .Her body would be nothing for him now, nothing. Still, she had to try. . . Taking another breath, she heads over to him, kneeling at his feet. "I'll do anything."

"You said the same last night, dearie." Her plight is of no interest to him and if he thinks that because he helped her last night, he would do the same tonight, she is mistaken. Still, she amuses him, and he's interested to see what she would do this night.

Her hand brushes at his trousers as she reaches for his hand, and he feels himself react slightly in response. Her face floods with color at feeling him, and he jerks himself free of her.

"Don't leave, please." She forces out, voice a soft, broken whisper. A voice in the back of her mind whispers she's not acting as she usually does, she hates it, but she can't help it. "I'll do anything."

"Anything's a rather large word, _isn't it_?" He sing-songs.

"Take my heart, please . . . ." She closes her eyes, braces herself for the feeling.

He tilts his head, doing his high-pitched cackling. "Your consent makes no difference, dearie."

She sags, face a mix of misery and hopelessness. "Take _me_. You could use a servant." Not to mention, she might learn some magic. . . .

"I could, _however_, I don't need one." His finger stirs the air.

She takes another breath, playing her last, desperate card, though she knows it'll make no difference. "Take me, then. I know—I've heard of some other things I didn't do the night before, and I'm quite sure I could. . ."

He turns towards her, considering it. "And this deal," He trills, "Is completed only _if _you do as you say. Have we a deal?"

Face a mask of cool determination, she nods. "I can. I will." Her fingers go to the laces of her dress.

"Leave the dress _on_, dearie. Now, shall we seal the deal?"

She stands up, pressing her lips to his once more, and her hands clutch herself close to him.

As dawn breaks in the sky, and pounding sounds on the door, she pulls together the ripped halves of her dress while standing up, as he twists the last straw of gold off.

"You'd better—"

As the sound of a key clicks in the lock, she notices him gone, with her necklace.

* * *

The third night, she's in a fancy, much more low-cut dress that shows off her figure now, and a tight-laced corset. Jewelry gleams on her, jewels sparkling, gold glowing. Her long curls are swept into an updo, contained in a gold hairnet.

"This is different, dearie. Doing well for yourself?" He says to her, as the blue smoke begins to vanish.

She spins. "I'm engaged to be married. A prince, the king's son. As a _reward_ for filling the coffers of the kingdom."

"Do you care about him?" He leans against a stack of straw, the straw cracking at his weight.

"Of course not." She replies levelly. "He, however, seems to have taken a shine to me, don't ask how." The words twist her mouth into a scowl.

His high-pitched laughter fills the room in response. "My dear girl, _love_ is a strange thing."

"Love is a weakness." She replies steadily, with the cynical confidence of someone who has been in what they believed to be love once, and betrayed. A village boy, pretending love, before wedding a girl she despised. Simple cruelty, the girl being jealous of her looks. "I don't believe in it."

"True love, however—"

"It doesn't exist." She says, deep brown eyes confident.

He moves towards her, until he's standing in front of her, fingers locked around her heart.

Her dark brows rise up, as if silently daring him to do it, and she yanks her hairnet off hard enough to dislodge the jeweled pins, curls falling back to their full length. Breathing hard, she stares into his eyes, a voice in her head whispering how oddly intimate this seemed. "Kill me, and you don't get me." The threat's a stupid one, her life must be less than one of a gant's towards him. . .But perhaps if he likes her body enough. . .

His fingers begin to tighten slowly, ever-so-slowly, and her eyes widen in pain and shock. Clearly, she hadn't thought he'd actually do it. "Your body is _nothing_ to me, dearie. Playthings are easy to come by."

Face drained of color, she does the only thing she can think of, what will either damn her or save her. She presses her lips to his, kissing him fiercely. His grip on her heart loosens, and she internally breathes a sigh of relief, hands fisting themselves in his greasy locks.

His shock over, he responds to her kiss with equal fever, hand clutching her heart. As confidence seems to take over her, as she seems to be sure he won't kill her, he tugs his hand out, her heart in her grasp. "Never." He hisses against her lips. "Do that again."

She draws back to the wall, petrified, just barely keeping herself from falling. He'll kill her. . . "I was only trying to save myself. . . "

He squeezes it, interested as to what she would do.

She lets herself crumple to the floor in pain, eyes squeezed shut. "Please—"

"Please _what_, dearie?" He demands, curious as to what she's going to say.

"Don't—I'll do anything—"

"Anything's a rather large word, dearie." He replies coolly, letting her heart fall on the ground.

She takes a breath, ready to play the same card she did last time. "Myself." Another breath. "All of myself, until you tire of me."

"Do we have a deal?" He questions.

She spares a glance at her glowing heart, certain it would never be in her body again. She'd just given it up, hadn't she? Her heart, her life as a princess, her life in general. Dusting herself off, she stands up once more, moving to him. The kiss she gives him this time is as soft as the silk in her gown.

"We wouldn't want to ruin your new dress, dearie." He murmurs against her lips, as he buries his hands in her hair.

As she pushes herself up from the floor, breathing deep, her eyes land on the straw still needing to be spun. Tensing up, body shivering with sudden cold; she pulls on the gown clumsily, not attempting the laces in the back, much less the elaborate corset. "The straw." She gasps. "It needs to be—"

"And what," he questions, as he dresses, "Will you give me?"

She turns to face him in sudden desperation. "Haven't I already given you en—"

He throws a cloud of blue magic at her, pinning her high to the wall. "You've given me _nothing_ tonight, dearie. What you gave me was for your life."

She struggles to think of an answer, struggles to wriggle down, succeeding only in scraping her back. "I— Teach me magic, then. Teach me power, and I swear I'll do anything."

"Not everyone—" He trilled, "Can learn _magic_."

"So then there's no harm in trying, is there?" She replies calmly, as if talking about the weather.

"Careful, now." He warns her. "All magic comes with a price."

"And it's a price I'm willing to pay." She says calmly. Magic is a power he wields over her; she wishes to not be at everyone's mercy. Locked in a room, which magic can easily escape. . .

"You won't always like the price." His son was his price, his sweet son; he would give it up for his son if he could. . .

"I have nothing to lose. All magic can take from me as a price is what it has given me." It's really, quite sadly true.

He lets down his magic, considering it.

She drops to the ground, fall cushioned only by straw, and she bites back a moan of pain. She'd have bruises there within a few hours. . . .

"What would you give me?" He asks. "Magic has a price, and this will be your first, whether it succeeds or not."

"I have nothing to give but my body, which you have. My physical heart, you have." Would he keep the heart he ripped out? How long could she survive without one?

"Your looks?" He circles her. "Your jewels? Your gown? Your _life_?"

She flinches at the last one, and her hands move up to bright red newly pierced ears to remove the jewels. "Take them. Take all of them."

He knows he has her. "Your first born?" A child, perhaps, could help heal the hole his son left. . . .Not fully, not even half, not scab the hole over, but ease it the smallest bit. . .

"My first born child." She replies, her voice level. "I said anything. I will pay the price."

"Don't think to fool me or to _slither_ out." He warns, voice dark, voice hissing on the s.

"I won't." She swears, hand to her breast. Usually, she's not a person who lets gestures talk, but after two nights, she finds him and his mannerisms growing on her.

"And how will I know you will do this?" He asks, voice light and high.

She picks herself up, wincing at the pain left by the fall. Moving closer to him, she presses her mouth to his once more.

With a mere two hours left to sunrise, he teaches one of the barest, most rudimentary spells—Spinning straw to gold, which she more or less picks up, seeming to have a gift for magic, and a great gift at that. Half of the straw she spins turns to gold, with a mere half-lesson, scraped together, with only the basics explained.

As the knocks pound on her door, she turns to him, frantic, but he's already placing her heart back into her chest, and a blue cloud descends over her, and the dress and corset are magicked back on, pins back in the hair, and hairnet in. The lock clicks, he vanishes, and she somehow shoves the last pits of unfinished straw through her hair before the king steps into the room.

* * *

Over the next five years, she studies and learns magic with him, pays him with herself, seals more deals with him, and marries the prince. As her belly begins to round, she tries to distance herself from it as her husband celebrates. She sees how unsuccessful she is at not growing to love the child growing with her, and in an attempt to not further love it, she refuses to think of names.

He notices of course, has felt it in her magic, but three months after he notices, does she finally go to him.

"I'm with my first-born child. Will you take it from me inside the womb, or out, Master?" She asks, as if it is a casual matter.

"Outside, of course." He laughs.

She nods. "Will you seal this deal, Master?" She glances up at him, dark eyes innocent.

Rarely does he let her do this, let her ask. He presses his lips to hers, and the deal is sealed shortly thereafter.

* * *

Five-and-a-half months later, as she pushes the child from her womb, and the girl comes out in a stream or blood, she presses the girl, her _daughter_ to her breast, cradling her. "Nothing will harm you while I'm around, I promise. You will get the best, even if I must. . . " In response to her vow, her child starts crying, and she refuses the attempts of the servants and midwives to take her baby away from her, letting them only clean herself and the afterbirth up. She dismisses them, and they flee.

A cloud of blue smoke fills the room, and he appears.

_No, not here, not now._ She'd always thought she could put it off, never thought the idea of separating from her baby would be so painful. She feels weak, so weak, she does not have the slightest chance of fighting him. . . The baby nurses, and she makes a promise to somehow, never let any harm come to her daughter. To do the best for her. Trying to make herself less vulnerable, she closes her legs, placing one ankle atop the other. With her hair, sweaty and matted, she tries to cover her baby daughter.

"Having second thoughts, I see." A cloud of blue magic tears her child from her, and into his arms. The babe coos, and falls asleep. He gives the shortest attempt at a smile for the infant.

Her heart melts at the picture, and she unwillingly admits to herself that their child makes a pretty picture in her father's arms. "Give her back. Please, Master."

"She is your price." He reminds her, bouncing the child in his arms. "What is her name?"

"Regina." She forces the name through her lips, fastening her with a name. _Queen. _"The only one I love."

"Isn't that _precious_." He sneers.

"Just a few months, Master, please. I beg of you. I'll pay you. My mouth, my body, my heart." She reaches her hand into her chest, pulling it out. "Take it, please, Master, just give me a few months with my daughter. . . "

"Are you attempting to go back on your _word_, dearie?"

Her heart throbs in her hand. "Of course not. I would never be so stupid, Master. All I want is—Is to know her for a bit, feed her. As soon as Regina's off the breast, she will go to you." She could use the time to learn more magic, study his weaknesses. . . .

He's oddly intrigued by her sudden burst of love, she who had once scorned love as a weakness. "Off the breast, you say? How long do you plan to keep her there?"

She swallows, sending a desperate look at her sleeping Regina. "One year. That's all I ask, Master."

He flicks his hand, and a plant sends out a vine to grip her throat tightly. "If you think to betray me. . . If you move, use magic to change your looks and hers . . . I will find you, I swear. _I will always find you._"

"I will- show up -for my magic- lessons." She chokes through the plant. She could easily snap the vine, loosen it, but he must believe her first. "I will- bring her in- for you to check- on her, she will watch- she will see. . . ."

"And what would her father think of that?" He trills, releasing the vine as her face changes color.

She breathes deeply, gasping, masking relief he didn't suspect the truth. "My husband is of no matter."

"And when his daughter vanishes after a year?"

"I will tell him she drowned." She shivers at the prospect. Little Regina's face turning blue, as her short limbs tried to claw herself up to the surface. . . .

He cackles again, and glances at the baby sleeping in his arms. A head of soft dark hair, a red face, a small body. Curious, he probes at her future with his magic, and a few spare images rush into his head—Regina, grown up, looking quite lovely with her mother's looks, but nothing like her, a teenaged girl in riding clothes on a horse, a teenaged boy, an old man, a beautiful young girl, a boy with brown hair, a woman with yellow hair. And a curse. The child sleeping in his arms, unleashing his Curse. "One year." He says finally. "You may have one year."

She leans against her pillows, face pale with relief. "Thank you. Now, my daughter, please—"

"Let's seal it as we do."

Her eyes flick to the door. She's never done it in her _husband's_ home, much less with her daughter there. And it hurts; she's still raw from the birth. . . She's too weak to think of a counterargument, and the deal must be sealed. . . "Regina." She mutters. "Not in the room—I don't want her to—" A puff of smoke envelopes her daughter, and whisks her away. At that, she claws herself upright, terror in her eyes. "What did you do to her, you—" It's on the tip of her tongue to spit at him that Regina is his daughter, too, that he better not have hurt her. . .

"She's with her father, don't worry." He replies coolly, amused by her reaction. He wonders slightly if she'd be up to it, _she_ had bluntly told him that she would need a while to recover from their son. . . .He reminds himself he doesn't care—_She's just a plaything— _even though she is his student. Students can be replaced, easily.

She takes a breath, placing her heart back into her chest. "Close the door, and come over here."

"Who are you to give orders to the Dark One, dearie?" He asks, amused.

_His lover._ That wasn't the right term; however, it was the closest term she knew that could describe them. While she had somehow acquired an affection for him, he had no such for her. _His whore._ That was better, though she disliked the insult to her. No doubt he saw it that way, but she would not, could not. _The mother of his daughter._ Most definitely not. _His student. _Replaceable, if not easily. She knew she had talent, a gift. . . "A woman in discomfort."

That draws a laugh from him, at her bluntness. As he vanishes and reappears at her side, the door slams shut, blue billowing around it to lock it, and silence them.

Wriggling around to sitting position, she leans to him, pressing her mouth to his. "Soft." She warns him. "If you go as you usually do, there's a chance you wouldn't be able to take your—" She cuts herself off. "That we won't be able to seal deals of this type anymore."

"I've had a son before, dearie." He sing-songs against her mouth.

She's raw, and it hurts more than it ever has before, but as always, she manages to find some type of pleasure. But it's worth it. She has her twelve months to figure out how to keep her perfect Regina, and to learn any weaknesses he might have now. _Besides, the physical benefits aren't that bad, either._

**((. . . I also apologize for making them, especially Cora, OOC. This was a random plot bunny that came to me at two in the morning, and I just went with it.))**_  
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End file.
